


To Wreath In Flame

by kanicro



Series: Little Dragon Age Fics [15]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: I love my Inquisitor which is why I torture him, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanicro/pseuds/kanicro
Summary: “I'm not a mage,” he protests weakly, and Dorian scoffs.“Yes, because anyone can summon veilfire. How silly of me to forget.”Ghilan bites back a retort and lights the fireplace. After a few moments, it comes roaring to life, slowly filling the room with warmth. He replaces the flint and steel and turns to face Dorian once more.“I don't- I don't know what to say."





	To Wreath In Flame

**Author's Note:**

> I love my Inquisitor, which is why I have a fully fleshed out backstory. And present story? Which is really just a bunch of headcanons but hey, I'm okay with that. I hope you enjoy reading this, whatever it is.

The room is cold and dark, the fire having long since died down. Careful not to disturb his vhenan, Ghilan shifts to the edge of the bed and gets up, shivering as he leaves the warmth of the blankets. He pulls the small throw blanket off of the end of the bed and drapes it around himself, rubbing his arms to try and generate some heat. He steps gingerly forward, trying to find spaces where the floor is clear in the pitch blackness. But it's almost impossible - Ghilan is usually never this untidy, but he'd been loathe to touch their sand-tainted armour after his bath. Thus, it lies where he and Dorian left it, strewn over the floor haphazardly. If he makes a mistake...

Ghilan closes his eyes, and summons veilfire.

The rush of mana makes him cringe, but the faint light streaming through his closed lids tells him that it worked. No explosions, no chaos. Just a blue-green glow. Ghilan opens his eyes to see the fire cradled slightly above his hand, illuminating the ground beneath his feet. It allows him to move to the fireplace and-

“You're a mage…?”

Dorian's whisper startles him and he jumps, the veilfire falling and fading into nothingness. He's left in the dark, hoping beyond hopes that he'd imagined the softly spoken words coming from the bed. He picks up the flint and steel from the mantle piece and holds them tightly, feeling the cold metal in his hand.

“You’re a mage,” Dorian says again, more certain this time. He sounds… hurt.

Ghilan turns around to face the direction of the bed, even though he can't see anything. The room seems much colder that it did before. He doesn't say anything.

“Why didn't-?” Dorian's voice, hoarse with sleep, breaks slightly. He tries again, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I, uh…” Ghilan stammers, speaking barely louder than a whisper.

“You, uh?” Dorian asks, and Ghilan hears the bed sheets rustle as he presumably sits up.

“I didn't tell anyone,” Ghilan tries, but even to him the argument sounds weak. He doesn't know what to say.

Dorian lights the candle beside the bed with real fire - proper fire, with proper magic. His eyes are clean of khol, his face open from fatigue. Ghilan loves him so much. Which is why the hurt so clearly painted into Dorian's posture makes him want to run, to disappear, to go back in time to before he got out of bed and curl into Dorian's side instead of braving the cold.

“You didn't tell me,” Dorian says, and Ghilan looks away.

“I'm not a mage,” he protests weakly, and Dorian scoffs.

“Yes, because anyone can summon veilfire. How silly of me to forget.”

Ghilan bites back a retort and lights the fireplace. After a few moments, it comes roaring to life, slowly filling the room with warmth. He replaces the flint and steel and turns to face Dorian once more.

“I don't- I don't know what to say,” Ghilan admits.

“How about, 'I’m sorry that I never told you about being a mage, Dorian.’ As if having magic is something shameful, something that should be hidden,” Dorian says, and there's the anger. But there's also pain, and if Dorian so much as sniffs then Ghilan will be ruined.

“It's not!” Ghilan says. He takes a step forward, then another, moving right up to the bed. Dorian’s face betrays his upset, and Ghilan feels shame curl in his stomach. “Gods, Dorian, of course it's not. Magic is wonderful. You're wonderful.”

“Then why hide, Amatus?” Dorian asks, reaching out to grasp Ghilan's hands. Ghilan steps back, looking away.

“It’s late,” he says, voice small. “Can't we just go back to bed?”

Dorian must see something in his face, because he acquiesces. He nods once, then lays down again. He lifts up the blankets, and Ghilan gets back into bed. He moves up close to Dorian, and his vhenan curls around him, surrounding him in warmth. He can hear the fire crackling behind him, and he closes his eyes.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan. I'm sorry,” Ghilan whispers. Dorian presses a kiss to his hair.

If Dorian hears him cry, he has the good grace to ignore it.

\------------------

Ghilan feels stuck in place, trapped in this living memory. Everything here reminds him of that moment - green stained with blood, the sun streaming through the trees, the red gore on his blades. He forces himself to sheath them, only to be struck with overwhelming defencelessness. It would take barely a moment for him to disappear and draw them again, but he-  
He-

“Broken bodies in blood-soaked bracken, destroyed and discarded,” Cole murmurs, and Ghilan feels his blood freeze. 

He looks away from the bodies on the ground, but the smell lingers. Copper mixed with the syrupy scent of crushed plants - it's everywhere in the air, clogging Ghilan's throat, drowning him in the stench.

“Hands slick, reaching into emptiness and finding nothing. 'Please, please don't be dead.’”

He recognises his own voice, different as it is to his now. But the others would only hear the high-pitched tone of childhood panic, pleading the impossible. He says nothing, stays quiet. The other party members look between themselves, wondering whose mind Cole is picking at. Who has found themselves an observer of this sort of chaos? Who has been powerless against death?

“Stumbling forward, blinded by tears and red red red,” Cole continues. Then, in the same voice as before, high-pitched and desperate, “'Falon’Din enasal enaste. Mythal, lasa ghilan.’”

Sometimes Ghilan wakes up with those words on his lips. His hands are shaking slightly, and he feels so- exposed. He hasn't felt like this since he was young, this...helpless. 

It takes him a moment to notice that he's the centre of attention. His ears burn, and he drops his gaze to the (vibrant, blood-spattered) forest floor.

“Ghilan,” Cassandra says, breaking the thoughtful silence, and he looks up to see her looking at him curiously, “Have you been here before?”

Ghilan shakes his head. “No, it's not that. ‘Mythal, lasa ghilan’. It means Mythal, guide me,” he says, hoping the shaking of his voice isn't too obvious.

“I wonder who that was,” Dorian muses, “Whoever it was, they sounded young. Or maybe that was just Cole.”

Another pang. He was young, when it happened. Young enough that he barely remembers anything more than the sight, the smell, and the overwhelming ever-present fear. But it's different now - the circles abolished, the templars undone, knives at his back. Nobody can hunt him down if he makes a mistake. And even so, the fear is still there, revitalised by the copper and syrup clinging to the back of his throat. He looks up at Cole to see him standing off to the side, watching the dappled sunlight on the ground dance. But he's paying close attention, his head cocked as if listening to a distant conversation. Ghilan dreads what more he's found inside his head, hurting enough that it calls to him over the brightness of the anchor.

“We should move on,” Ghilan says, attempting to brush the memory aside. Watching Solas paint, Vivienne's small smiles, Cassandra embarrassed after gifting her the book. Cole laughing in the decrepit room, Josephine and her tea, laying in bed with- “It happened a long time ago.”

Cole, thankfully, says nothing more.

\------------

Solasan is filled with magic, humming in Ghilan's head and vibrating through his bones. The Temple isn't cold, or warm - it just is, with as much surety as the sun rising in the morning. His footsteps echo through the room as he walks past the unopened door and down the stairs. The soft susurrus of veilfire fills the air with whispers, and Ghilan closes his eyes as he follows Cole into the lower chamber. He pauses on the bottom step, just… listening. He's not sure what the voices are saying - he will probably never know.

“Seeking silence, softly, slowly. If nobody sees I'll be safe. You’re still so afraid, Ghilan,” Cole says softly, and Ghilan frowns, opening his eyes and turning to look at him.

“What do you mean?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“You thought being you would hurt them, so you hid it until you were too afraid to find it,” Cole elaborates, “He dances so beautifully, but you don't know the steps.”

Ghilan can tell that Solas, standing further up the stairs, is listening. He's doing so unobtrusively, quietly, creating a sense of privacy. Ghilan suspects he's known the entire time, even though he's never said anything to give him away. He appreciates it more than he can say. Ghilan has never feared the magic of others - he never knew any mage younger than him, and the mages he's met amongst the Inquisition are just so… controlled. Careful. Solas casts spells as easily as breathing. Vivienne uses her magic clinically, perfectly. And Dorian’s magic is as beautiful and flashy as himself. But even the thought of Ghilan creating veilfire threatens to panic him. When he was younger, before he was afraid, he could do so much more. 

He wants that back.

“I'd like to learn,” Ghilan states awkwardly, conscious of the silence that had fallen while he thought.

“Freedom, fire, fleeting but without fear. You want it, even though you're scared?” Cole asks.

Ghilan can see Solas waiting curiously for his answer, having given up any pretense of obliviousness.

“Things like this are worth doing, even if they're not easy. Even when you're scared, freedom is worth fighting for.”

Solas continues down the stairs, his head turning away, but not before Ghilan sees the pride on his face.

\---------

The library is tinted gold by the sunlight, and Ghilan listens out for Dorian's footsteps. They stop suddenly, presumably upon seeing Ghilan seated in his chair, and Ghilan swallows as Dorian cautiously moves closer. He… didn't mean to avoid him. But there's no turning back now. 

Ghilan takes a deep breath and summons veilfire. 

The rush of mana still makes him cringe, but he forces himself to relax. It's fine. He knows how to do this. He's safe here. Ghilan's overly conscious of his breathing, of his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. He watches as the flame burns to life, a soft blue-green that dances on his hand. It's small, smaller than any veilfire Dorian has ever lit. And it seems shy - if fire can be shy. Maybe that's just Ghilan projecting. But it's there, in plain sight for anyone to see. For Dorian to see.

“Oh,” Dorian says quietly. Ghilan's gaze flickers to him.

He's watching the flame, the glow reflecting in his eyes. There's quiet wonder in his expression, and he's so so beautiful. When he moves forward the afternoon sunlight glimmers off his clothes, sending silver dancing around the library. And when Dorian looks at him, Ghilan flushes. That look of wonder, turned on him… He forces himself to meet his eyes. Dorian’s khol is perfectly in place, he notes absent-mindedly. 

He doesn't really expect Dorian to kiss him. And then he does, and it's wonderful. Dorian’s lips are soft against his own, and Ghilan closes his eyes. He feels Dorian's hand against his jaw and tilts into it, feeling his thumb caress his cheek. When they separate, the veilfire is gone, and Ghilan's lips are tingling. Dorian smiles, and then grins, and then laughs delightedly. Ghilan feels himself blush. Dorian looks at him, wonder written all over his face, and kisses him again.

Ghilan loves him so much.

“You’re a mage,” Dorian says at last, and Ghilan bites his lip.

“I'm… something. I don't really know. I'm just… me,” he says awkwardly, and Dorian laughs.

“Ah, that must explain why I’m so fond of you,” Dorian replies cheekily.

Ghilan kisses him again.

“I want to learn. I don't need to know much,” he says, his forehead resting against Dorian's. “I just want to be able to-” he breaks off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He wants to be able to set their enemies ablaze, something Dorian does frequently and exultantly. He wants to be able to relight the hearth at night without having to leave bed. He wants to be able to protect Dorian even if he can't be at his side.

(He wants to marry him, when this is all over.)

Dorian's eyes crinkle as he smiles again. “I know. Let me know how I can help.”


End file.
